I’ve wanted to be a writer ever since I picked out my first matching Lisa Frank notepad and pencil set. I’ve always read everything I could get my hands on, down to the cereal box during breakfast. My friends teased me about carrying dictionaries around school (they were Stephen King novels). So when I finally got the chance to try it for real, I was excited.
And then I was terrified.

Suddenly, faced with the opportunity that I’d spent my entire life dreaming of and preparing for, I froze. I knew I wanted it, I suspected that I could do it, but the thought that I might not be able to pull it off kept me paralyzed. After all, wanting to write and actually being a writer are two very different things. Just because your friends and family think you’re good at something doesn’t mean you are. Look at all those hopefuls at the American Idol tryouts. I’m not down for that kind of embarrassment.

It’s an ironic situation, though. While I was freaking out about failing, I wasn’t even trying. Which, of course, meant I was failing anyway. The deeper irony is that I could know all of this and still not be able to move forward.

Why?

It was a matter of identity. We all define ourselves in different ways. I think of myself in terms of what I know, what I have done, and what I can do. The first two are pretty concrete; there’s no arguing with what I know and what I’ve done. The trouble started with the last one. It was one thing for me to imagine pursuing my dream. I’d be a big-time writer with a huge house and a studio where I go to “create” … or something. Basically, I imagined myself as the Trini J.K. Rowling. It’s my dream, after all.

But.

What if I if I tried and failed?

Who would I be then?

I didn’t want to know for sure that I was a mediocre writer. It’s the only borderline talent I’ve got.

I know, it’s ridiculous and completely illogical, but it’s also 100% real. So real, in fact, that I could almost imagine passing on the opportunity just to keep the fantasy intact.

Luckily for me, this particular opportunity didn’t give up on me as quickly as I had given up on it. Just when I thought that I’d let something truly special slip away, I got one last chance and I grabbed it. But that was the easy part. I still had to deliver, which was when the true paralysis set in. Still afraid that I wouldn’t measure up, I couldn’t put myself out there. The pressure, which I put on myself by myself, was just too much.

And then I took a deep breath.

And I took a step back.

And I realized something:
I already knew what I could do. I’d done it before and I could do it again. I just had to give myself the chance. I had to relax and open up and just take the first step. Forgetting the big picture, forgetting whether I measured up, and especially forgetting whether it would lead to success or failure in the long run. Because whether this first step led to my dreams coming true or the discovery that the dream isn’t really for me, the bigger tragedy would be to let the chance pass me by and spend the rest of my life wondering what could have been.

So I started.

One step at a time.

One word at a time.

What do you think?

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